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AND OTHEf^BlT5 
•t OFWESTEf^ VER5E 



By 



GEOR.6E ELDER. CFIUMP. 

IH,UvSTR.ATION,5 BY 

HEF^My\N DOVEFl^ 




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Class, f^,9^r)<^ 
Book— 14^ f/^^ 
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QOD'5 
COUNTPY 



and Other Bits 

of Western 

Verse 



GCORGC CLDCR CRUHP 



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Copyright 

1909 

Geo. E. Crump 



Illustrations t>v Herman Dover 






Caiateinife 



GOD'S COUNTRY 

CAMP-SICK 

PUCkET SOUND 

TEN BELOW 

TO A BRIER PIPE 

SPIRIT LAKE 

PRIEST LAKE 

A FISHING SONG 

TO A DRUG FIEND 

THE SPOKANE VALLEY 

A GARDEN. HAYDEN LAKE 

SANTA CRUZ 

FALL 

GRINDING OF THE WHEEL 

TO THE PLAYERS 

A LIVING ROOM, HAYDEN LAKE 

MULTUM IN PARVO 

KNITTING 

BILL'S BUGLE 

WHAT RILEY'S WRIT 

GOOD NIGHT 



©CI.A255772 



I've seen all I want of big cities, and I guess they're 

all right in their way ; 
I've been stalled in a block for a couple of weeks, 'nd 

I've rid on the street cars all day ; 
I've been 'round to the-a-tres and op-ras, and for 

pictures I've seen 'bout the best. 
And while there is lots in the East we ain't got, you 

can't start me too soon for the West. 

We ain't got such sky-scrapin' buildin's, nor bridges 

that stretch for a mile. 
Nor stores where they sell about all that there is, from 

threshin' machines to hair ile ; 
We ain't got such crowded streets, neither, w^here you 

sure have to shove your way through ; 
No, there's several things w^e ain't got in the West, 

but for all that I guess it'll do. 

We breathe air in the West — it's the real thing — and 

it's sw^eet with the scent of the pine. 
And our scenery's somethin' that never grows stale — 

our mountains and lakes, wal, they're fine ! 
You may have some sunsets back east here, you may 

have, but I'm here to bet 
If you'd seen some I've seen from the top of the range 

you'd agree they're the best ever yet. 

And the thing that I like 'bout the West is, that a man 

is his own boss out there ; 
I'd rather be riinnin' a tw^o-by-four ranch than clerk 

to some swell millionaire ; 
Of course, there is times when the grub's scarce, and 

you hustle to make both ends meet, 
But the man who stays with it is bound to win out, 

and when I'm in luck it's my treat. 

So "Here's to the West" — drink it down, boys — where 

there's ginger and push and fresh air ; 
Where there's chances for all who've got hustle and 

grit, to stay with the game and deal fair ; 
The East is all right, if you like it ; it's got lots w^e ain't 

got, of the best. 
But just now I've a longin' I want to git back to my 

country — God's Country — the West. 




mmp 



I'm sick of the busy old city, 
I'm sick of its dirt and its 
din ; 

I'm sick of the crowds on the 
pavements, and business 
itself seems a sin; 

For as I gaze out of the win- 
dow, away where the 
mountains are blue, 

I can hear the low voice of 
the river, as I paddle my 
dug-out canoe. 




On the banks giant trees rise above me ; from their 

branches comes incense divine ; 
There's a glorious vigor about them, those sturdy old 

cedars and pine ; 
What apartment is half so delightful as a camp 'neath 

their wide-spreading limbs. 
And w^hat melody ever w^as sweeter than the song in 

their tops of the winds. 










;M: 



mi 



Below me a rock splits the river, and there where the 
water flows white 

Is the haunt of the trout — well I know 

it — and I follow my flies in their 

flight ; 
Ere they scarcely have lit on the riffle 

there's a swirl, a quick tug and a 

gleam, 
Then my line cuts a path through the 

water, as the fish fights its w^ay 

up the stream. 

Now^ the sun has sunk over the hill- 
tops; o'er the lake comes the 
cool evening breeze ; 

And I'm pushing my prow again 
canipward, where the light of a 
fire through the trees 

Tells me Bill's cooking flap-jacks and 
bacon, and soon * * * ! there's 
the telephone bell ; 

"Who is it ? — all right — send him up, 
please." Well, business is — some- 
times it's h 1 ! 




' iMMi&MiraanMSHm^ - 




¥n£(Bt S© 



There's somethin* about the salt water that goes to my 

head Hke old wine — 
The wash of the surf on the beaches and the smell of 

the good old sea brine 
Clears my mind of its worries and troubles, sends the 

blood rushin' up to my brain, 
And I surely feel glad that I'm livin' when I'm down 

by the old Sound again. 

The gulls that fly over the harbor, the drift carried out 

by the tide, 
The smoke of an outward bound liner agettin' her 

deep sea ^ride ; 
You see, I live back in the mountains, I'm workin' a 

sort of a mine. 
But whenever the pay^reak develops I cash in and 

^art for the brine. 

There's lots of queer life by the water, as you loaf 

'round the docks day by day — 
A "wind-jammer" in from Au^ralia, a "tramp" loadin' 

up for Bombay — 
All kinds and all sizes they come here, from every 

port under the skies, 
You can tell mo^ the lands that they hail from by the 

buntin' a^ern that she flies. 

Some days when there's no wind a ^irrin', and the 
smoke curls ^raight up through the air. 

With a haze hangin' over the islands, and the moun- 
tains behind 'em as fair 

As any the poets have mentioned — I can't tell you ju^ 
how I feel, 

But I w^ant to forget all my meanness, and give the 
whole world a square deal. 

And, then, it's some grand w^hen it's blowin', with the 
bay ju^ a mass of white foam. 

The clouds scuddin' over the heavens, and the gulls 
makin' tracks to get home ; 

Salt water ! you bet it's the real thing — there's some- 
thin' about it that's fine ; 

You can all have your lakes, brooks and rivers, but 
give me salt water for mine. 



J' 





T( 



ssa 



Pile another log 
on. Bill, 
It's sure cold to- 
night ; 
Wind a-howlin' 
from the north, 
Streams a-freez- 
in' tight ; 
Snow a-siftin' 
through the air, 
Light as any 
feather ; 
Give me Summer, 
Spring or Fall, 
I can't stand this 
weather. 



Seems like I ain't seen the sun 

For a year or tw^o. 
And this everlastin' w^hite 

Ain't my kind 'o view. 
Freezin' when you're out 'o doors, 

Roastin' w^hen you're in ; 
Give me Summer, Spring or Fall, 

Winter's sure a sin. 

And this ridin' on the range 

Ain't light exercise. 
With a "Norther" in your face 

Under leaden skies. 
Grouchy ? Wal, perhaps I am. 

But I've got a reason ; 
Give me Summer, Spring or Fall, 

D n this Winter season. 

Birds have got the right idea ; 

If I just could fly 
I'd be hikin' out o' here 

When the flowers die. 
What with rheumatiz and "grip" — 

My ! Ain't it a fright ! 
Give me Summer, Spring or Fall ; 

Don't you think I'm right ? 



T© a IBrief Pipe 



Fashioned from roots of curious twi^ and curl. 
Daintily curved and polished as a pearl. 
You well might solace bring to king or earl, — 
Pipe of Sweet Brier. 

When fir^ you came to me light was your hue, 
But as I filled you day by day you grew 
Black as a slave — a slave mo^ kind and true — 
Pipe of Sweet Brier. 

How many pleasant recollecitions cling 
About you, like the buds in early spring 
Clu^er upon a bush where birds oft sing — 
Pipe of Sweet Brier. 

I cannot help but think how few like you 
There are w^ho ever give — and never sue 
For recompense — whose faults as yours are few- 
Pipe of Sw^eet Brier. 

When at the close of day I homeward ^ray 
With cares that shroud me in a veil of gray, 
You drive all trouble from my mind away — 
Pipe of Sweet Brier. 

Now^, once again your bowl with w^eed I fill 
And hug the blaze that kills the evening chill ; 
Your smoke's an antidote for every ill — 
Pipe of Sweet Brier. 





)pmt Lake 



The mountains rise above it to the sky 
And at its head Mount Carleton, like a king, 
Shoulders its massive form where eagles fly ; 
From out its canons deep toned echoes ring. 
Like voices of the Gods that guard the peak, 
And, challenged, always answer when you speak. 

Deep in its limpid depths, in many a pool. 
The great trout lurks, watching w^ith eager eyes 
The minnows that in shallow water play. 
Or where in careless flight the luckless flies 
Drop to the surface ; then the widening rings 
Mark but the spot. A distant song-bird sings. 
And far above, in rapid flight, there 

wings 
A wild duck to her nest ; a fretful 

loon 
With maniac laughter greets the 

rising moon ; 
A bat in crooked flight wings in its 

wake, 
And frogs croak from the marsh- 

at Spirit Lake. 




f-gg^jjta'^jR-ti^^g^,^;^^^:.:- 




Pffiesft Lak( 



The sun has sunk beneath the mountain's rim, 
The highe^ peaks are la^ to bid him go, 

And where all day the hills were bathed in blue. 
Now purple shadow^s rise to meet the snow. 

The evening breeze comes rippling o'er the lake ; 

A gentle breeze — refreshing, cool, sublime — 
As if it w^ere the breath of all the trees 

That, rank on rank, the di^ant mountains climb. 

The clouds above take on the sunset's glow — 
Great painted ships that float against the blue. 

Their changing forms too delicate to la^, 

Slowly they drift their way and pass from view. 

And, now, a illness falls upon the earth, 
Save here and there the twitter of a bird. 

Or, faintly borne across the placid lake, 
The distant murmur of a ^ream is heard. 

And night comes on ; from the great dome above 
The fir^ ^ar peeps ; then, slowly, one by one, 

The little lamps of Heaven again are lit ; 

The sunset's glow is gone — the day is done. 



I -will sing you a song of the whirring reel. 

Of a rod that is slender and fair ; 
Of a dainty line of woven silk. 

And the flies that hang pendant there ; 
Of my w^illow creel with its meshes fair 

That has cradled many a pet 
Lifted from out some cool retreat 

And laid there, shining and wet. 

1 will sing of a morning bright and fair, 

The sun just tinging the east ; 
Of a camp-fire breakfast, smoking hot, 

That is better than any feast ; 
Of the breeze that tosses the sturdy pines 

And carries their fragrance far. 
Filling the sails of the great Cloud Ship 

That floats 'neath the Morning Star. 

The stream at my feet sings a song of its ow^n, 

Better than any I know ; 
Sometimes it ripples in laughter loud, 

Sometimes it murmurs low ; 
And as I puff my pipe of brier, 

And cast in some tempting pool, 
I am learning some truths that I never knew, 

Only taught at Dame Nature's school. 



T© a Dime' Fiesadl 



I pity you, poor wasted, living death. 

With face more Hke a skull, and troubled breath, 

Hands like the talons of a bird of prey. 

And deep sunk eyes that ever seem to say : 

"There is no Hell beyond ; 'lis here today." 

Your wasted form, your ever trembling knees. 
Remind me of the gaunt, charred trunk of trees 
That forest fires have sw^ept, and every breeze 
Tosses and shakes, 'till finally some day 
It crashes to the ground and to decay. 

Once you were young and strong, a mother's pride 
Shone in her eyes when you w^ere by her side ; 
You laughed at care, and misery defied 
In those glad days ; how little then you knew 
That years w^ould bring this bitter fate to you. 

Your only friend is drug — morphine, cocaine ; 
A demon in disguise which robs your brain 
And stimulates your shattered nerves in vain. 
The needle leaves upon your flesh deep scars, 
Yet 'tis your god — you kiss your prison bars. 

Poor wretch, there is no 

horror 'neath the sun 
That, if you met, you'd step 

aside to shun; 
Your torment never ends — is 

never done — 
And when at night the World 

sinks to its rest 
You wander like a spirit 

cursed, unblessed. 

You have no friend, no home, 

no hope — the grave 
Would be relief — oblivion 




you crave ; 
Your lot is worse than any 

fettered slave. 
Poor sufferer, in some world 

after this 
I pray that God may grant 

you perfe<5t bliss. 



There's a grandeur in our mountains rising snow- 
capped from the plain ; 
There's a glory in our river rushing by ; 
There's a beauty in the Summer when the fields are 
gold with grain, 
And no words can paint the sunsets of our sky. 
There is inspiration wafted in the breezes from the 
pines, 
There is life that's worth the living in the West ; 
There is plenty here for all who come, a hearty wel- 
come, too. 
And Nature offers each her very best. 



A Gaardeffi — Inlsiydeiffl Lak 



/"' 



^ 



Dear generous Garden, once again I come, 
And once again you greet me with a smile, 
Pouring upon the breeze your fragrance rare ; 
A thousand blossoms nod their welcome while 
My eyes drink in your mass of glorious bloom. 

Along the path the poppies blaze the way 
And flaunt their silken heads ; the sparkling dew^ 
Gems the sweet peas, galardias, astors, pinks ; 
A palette set w^ith every shade and hue. 

A drowsy humming tells of busy bees 
Taking their fill from every honeyed cup, 
'Till, drunk w^ith nedtar, zigzag down the breeze 
They reel away to store their sweetness up. 

The sunlight filters through the pergola 
And leaves upon the ground a rare design — 
Blotches of golden light, and shadowed forms 
Of dainty leaves and 

tendrils of the 

vine. 

And little feathered 

robbers in the 

trees 
Are stealing fruit, nor 

think it any wrong I 
"Surely," they chirp' 

"there's plenty 

here for all," 
Then gratefully repay 

me with a song. 

Dear generous Gar- 
den, here I love to 
come 

And leave behind the 
world and all its 
care ; 

Drink deep your per- 
fumed breath, and 
feast my eyes 

On all the beauty that 
you offer here. 



H 





m... 



iaimte Crai^ 



Where ever restless waters wash the beach, 

Champing and fuming Uke a nervous steed ; 
Where broken cHffs, Uke miser's fingers, reach 

For ocean's treasures, in their ceaseless greed ; 
Where, hollowed by the waters, caves of rock 

Resound and echo to the ocean's rush. 
Like sentinels of stone that seem to mock 

Each coming storm — each wave that strives to crush ; 
Where seagulls float like sails upon the air, 

Dipping and rising on the salt wind's breast 
Like pleasant thoughts, that never know a care. 

Which lull our minds and soothe our hearts to rest — 
There, where the w^hite-caps ever fret and toss, 

Nestles the "City of the Holy Cross." 



Fall 



When the fields are dull gold with the harvest 

And the mountains swim blue in the sun ; 
When the boughs are bent low with their burdens 

That drop to the earth, one by one ; 
When the bushes that follow the roadways 

Burn red with the colors of Fall, 
While all the year Nature is charming, 

This season seems best of them all. 

It's a season of fullness and plenty, 

This harvesting time of the year ; 
A warmness and brightness of color, 

A promise of wealth and good cheer. 
How fully the Earth is repaying 

With generous crops for us all ; 
And while every season is charming. 

The one I love best is the Fall. 




"^^^^^^^M^^*::^:"^ 




,'Mi 




There is no steel but what its strength and temper 

Has been acquired by blows and whitest flame ; 
No painting ever graced a noble mansion 

But years of toil had made the artist's fame. 
No diamond ever shone as some imprisoned star 

But what has felt the grinding of the w^heel ; 
No life has ever known the depths of happiness 

But what some sorrow's taught the heart to feel. 

Dear friend, remember w^hen the days look darkest, 

When one by one our brightest hopes have fled ; 
When those that used to know us pass as strangers, 

And every high ambition now seems dead; 
When all the day we long for sleep's oblivion, 

And waking only means another day 
In which to stifle sobs, though heart be breaking, 

And smile — an adtor in a tragic play: — 

Remember, there's no storm but spends its fury. 

And after tempest shines the sun more clear ; 
Although we've suffered it has made us nobler, 

And selfishness has left us, tear by tear. 
The past is dead — we may not live it over — 

But on before a glorious Future lies ; 
When Night is gone, with all its drear forebodings. 

All Nature smiles beneath a glad sunrise. 




#'^z^ 




T® th® PEaysffs 

To you, good friends, who drive dull care away, 
This weary world owes much — nor can it pay 
In vulgar coin for all the good you do 
In painting into life a rosy hue. 

Against w^hat odds how brave a part you play ; 
Jostled about the world from day to day. 
With home and friends a thousand miles away ; 
The "jumps" are long, the dressing rooms are bad, 
The meals are often worse, and yet you smile 
And laugh and sing as though you never had 
A care on earth, or knew a single trial. 

Your health, good friends, as on your way you go, 
And more than money you can count your gain 
In all the happiness you leave behind ; 
Here's hoping w^e may sometime meet again. 



Life is well "worth the living in this room ; 

There may be rooms more grand, but none that holds 

For me the sense of comfort and good cheer 

That everjrwhere abounds within these w^alls. 

I love the ingle, where the crackling logs 

Send forth their glow and warmth, and piney scents 

Steal from the smoke that ever twi^s and curls 

Up the great chimney's gaping blackened throat. 

What matter that w^ithout it rains or snow^s. 

Or wintry w^inds come howling from the north ; 

Here one is warm and filled with sweet content, 

And feels the world is kind and full of friends. 

i love the pleasing colors of this room — 
The reds and browns, the glint of polished brass, 
The frieze above with goodly thoughts inscribed. 
And through the w^indows, o'er the sloping lawn, 
The lake, that basks beneath the drifting clouds. 
What words can paint its ever-changing moods — 
Describe the mountains, in the morning blue. 
Above the mi^s which curl in vapory grace. 
Then purple as the day draws to its close ? 
Each day the picfture changes — some new phase 
Of Nature greets us, never to return. 
And when at night the moon swims overhead, 
Trailing across the lake its silver path, 
There is no lovelier spot in all the world. 



m IPa 

Did you ever stop to think that the w^ay to be suc- 
cessful 

Is to say the thing w^orth saying, and to do the thing 
w^orth doing ; 

That the way to live the happiest is just to share your 
pleasure, 

And the better way to share it is to woo the girl worth 
wooing. 



w- 



In the gray twilight she's quietly knitting 

Clothes for her little one, dainty and small ; 
Qyietly knitting, with fingers that tremble, 

And on the work gli^en tear-drops that fall, 
Thinking of baby, her very own treasure ; 

Strange how her heart seems to throb at that word. 
Many a time in the past has she heard it — 

Ah, but it wasn't "my baby" she heard. 

Tenderly, carefully, weaves she the fabric 

As she would form great resolves for its life ; 
Gently she smoothes out the places that roughen 

As she would smoothe out the danger and strife. 
How, if she could, would she bear all its burdens. 

Her baby never should know^ want or cold ; 
Why must it grow^ up to know all the sadness — 

Why must her lamb ever stray from the fold ? 

Thus speaks the mother's heart, filled with its sacrifice ; 

In all the world there's no love like her love — 
Love that endures all, that seeks for no recompense ; 

Love that is infinite, love from above. 




(Written on the Return of the "Rough Riders" From Cuba.) 

There ain't been much fun in the army, 

And I guess that we've all earned our pay ; 
But, then, we weren't fightin' for wages, 

And we'd do it again any day. 
Yet, now that the trouble is over, 

(Except for the fever and chills), 
There isn't so much that sounds cheerful 

Exceptin' that bugle of Bill's. 

And it ain't so pleasant at all times — 

For instance, the first thing at dawn. 
When the cursed old fever's been makin' 

Yer wish that you'd never been born ; 
But all through the day when I hear it 

I'm d d if its music ain't sweet, 

Exceptin' one tune Bill ain't played yet. 

And never will play — that's "Retreat." 

He blows the boys down to the grub tent. 

And it don't mean no hard-tack this time ; 
And you bet when I outfit in future 

There won't be no "canned beef" in mine. 
From sunrise to dark it means business — 

When Bill blows there's somethin' to do, 
But, then, I feel best when I'm workin', 

Elxcept when the grub's pretty few. 

Yes, I'm glad that the fightin' is over, 

And we're back on the hills at Montauk ; 
The boys will be startin' for home soon. 

And you bet this time they won't walk. 
And I'll think of it over and over. 

When I'm ridin' the range, and perhaps 
I won't think of Bill when the stars are out bright 

And the wind dow^n the canon blows "Taps." 



I tell yer, Mi^er Riley, you're the kind o* man f er me ; 
Now, I don't go much on varses, nor no kind o' poetry, 
But when I read them rhymes of yourn they warn't 

like the re^. 
For you've sort o' reached the heart o' things and took 

'em at the be^. 

I'd never noticed nothin' that was pretty 'bout the barn, 
Or the bosses or the cattle — why I didn't care a darn ; 
And to think that you could pictur' sech a pleasant 

kind o' view 
Of the corn and yaller punkins — vval, you've done it 

mighty true. 

Of course, I couldn't write it, and I wouldn't never try, 
But, ju^ the same, / feel it since I read your varse, 

and w^hy 
I never noticed it afore is mor'n I can tell. 
But I'm glad you've writ it, Riley, and you've writ it 

mighty well. 



G®©dl mUM 



Good night, dear one, without the world is sinking to 
its rest. 

The tired beasts have lain them down, the bird sleeps 
in its nest ; 

Above, the moon through fleecy clouds sheds light on 
all below. 

On burning wastes of desert lands, on fields of spark- 
ling snow. 

And, as I gaze far up above, while all about me sleep, 

"Dear Moon," 1 cry, "in yonder sky a holy vigil keep 

O'er this wide earth ; guard well each one until the 
morning light ; 

May sweet, refreshing sleep attend each weary one — 
Good Night." 



MK U ISio 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
018 603 992 # 



